The Final Reveille: A Living History Museum Mystery

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The Final Reveille: A Living History Museum Mystery
© 2015 by Amanda Flower.

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

First e-book edition © 2015

E-book ISBN: 9780738745695

Cover design by Kevin R. Brown

Cover illustration © 2015 Tom Jester/Jennifer Vaughn Artist Agency

Map by Llewelyn Art Department

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dedication

For Suzy

Beat! beat! drums!—Blow! bugles! blow!

–Walt Whitman

One

The Union solider glared
at his Confederate counterpart. “You're lucky I'm all out of gunpowder, or I'd blow you all the way back to the Mason-Dixon Line.”

“Oh you would, would you? I'd like to see you try.” The Confederate soldier was red-faced as he tugged on the collar of his heavy denim jacket. The Confederate encampment behind him, a cluster of several dozen white cotton tents held upright with wooden poles, bustled with activity. Children in their breeches and cotton shirts ran barefoot from tent to tent in an elaborate ga
me of hi
de-and-seek while their mothers started the long process of cooking lunch over their tiny fire pits. The Confederate flag hung proudly from every flag post. On the Union side, the encampment
was almost identical with the exception of the thirty-fi
ve-starred American flag displayed at every campsite and Abraham
Lincoln strolling in and around the Union tents, repeating the Gettysburg Address to anyone who would listen.

Crack! Crack!
To my right, a battle raged in the grassy field. As the sound of musket fire broke the silence of the usually tranquil river valley, the regiment from the Ohio Volunteer Infantry charged toward their adversaries with a triumphant yell. The Confederate Division of the King's Brigade also charged forward brandishing their bayonets and stout knives retrieved from their boots.

As the two opposing armies met, the clatter of metal on metal reverberated across the field. Soldiers from both sides fell to the ground with cries of pain and disbelief. The Union and Confederate soldiers in front of me ignored the demise of their comrades just a few feet away.

While the two soldiers argued, a third man lay fallen less than a yard from my feet on the other side of the wooden rail fence that surrounded the pasture.

“Water, please, Miss?” he murmured.

I looked down at him. He was another Union solider. His right arm was flung out dramatically above his head, and his left arm lay across his chest as if covering a wound. His blond hair was encrusted with mud as it had rained the night before the battle. His forage cap had a tear in the brim and one of the brass buttons was missing from his dark blue wool shirt. Despite his condition, a smile teased at the corners of his mouth.

I peered down at him. “I'm sure your medic will be along shortly.”

The soldier shook his head with a twinkle in his eye. “I am the medic. There's no help for me. Can't you tell I'm dead?”

I raised an eyebrow. “You don't look dead to me.”

He winked, closed his eyes, and resumed playing dead.

The Confederate soldier, who was a large man with a handle-
bar mustache, grumbled. “I see your men aren't trained well enough to stay dead when they're hit straight on by a musket ball.” He appeared to be at a serious risk of heat stroke.

The Union solider who stood across from him was at least twenty years younger and looked like the poster child for enlistment. He held his kepi, his regiment-issued hat, in his hands, and his dark hair was brushed back from his forehead. He touched his cleft chin as he thought of a comeback.

“Please calm down,” I cried over the din, clutching my ever-present notebook.

The two arguing men stared at me in surprise. I may be a tiny woman, but I know how to project my voice when needed, a trick I learned from my father who was an amateur stage actor. It's a skill that came in handy in my job as the director of Barton Farm, a living history museum situated an hour south of Cleveland, Ohio.

Now that I had their attention, I asked, “What's the problem?”

The Confederate soldier wiped his brow. “He stole a canteen from my encampment.”

“Why would I steal anything from you? I'm surprised everyone in your company has shoes!”

The Confederate soldier's face turned even redder as he struggled for a rebuttal.

This was the first Civil War reenactment I had hosted, and I didn't want any casualties. I stepped in between the pair, who were now attracting more attention than the battle raging on the Barton Farm pasture. “What are your names?”

“I'm Sergeant Wesley Mayes,” the Union solider replied.

“And I'm Corporal Henry Adams,” the Confederate soldier said. His flushed cheeks began to lighten.

“Adams?” Wesley snorted. “A fine federal name for a Rebel.”

Henry's nostrils flared, reminding me of the Farm's oxen when they were in a foul mood.

“Is this true about the canteen?” I asked Wesley, using the voice I usually reserved for unruly grade schoolers visiting the Farm on a field trip.

Wesley placed his kepi on his head. “No.”

“Liar!” Henry accused. “I saw you in my camp.”

“You must have mistaken me for someone else,” Wesley said coolly.

“We aren't going to settle this now,” I said. “Henry, if you would like to file a complaint, there are forms in the visitor center. At the same time, report the missing canteen to the front desk. We'll keep an eye out for it in the lost-and-found.”

“That's it?” Henry cried. “That's all you're going to do?”

“Listen.” I put my hands on my narrow hips and straightened to my full five-foot-two height. “I have one hundred and forty-two reenactors, thirty Farm staffers—most of whom are seasonal and believe Abraham Lincoln fought in the Revolutionary War—and nearly four hundred visitors here. I don't have time to hunt down your canteen.”

Wesley grinned and polished the third brass button on his coat with a handkerchief.

Henry sniffed. “Well, I will certainly report this to my commanding officer.” He stomped away.

Wesley called after him, “Just remember who won the war!” before strutting back to his own encampment.

The flirty dead solider opened his eyes again. “You handled that well.”

“Can't you stay dead?” I asked.

He snorted a laugh.

“Kelsey,” the soft voice of my assistant, Ashland George, whispered into my ear. She teetered back and forth on her ostrich-like legs. A stiff wind could topple my gawky assistant and send her sprawling into the middle of the battlefield.

“What is it?” I felt sweat trickle down my back. June wasn't usually this muggy in the Cuyahoga Valley, but we'd had an early spring that led into a long hot summer.

Ashland's eyes, fringed by blond lashes, blinked at me from behind her glasses. “Umm, well.” Her voice was as powerful as a baby chick's. She certainly didn't know how to project.
Maybe I should ask Dad to give her some tips
. I scanned the crowd. He was around the Farm somewhere, along with my five-year-old son, Hayden. Undoubtedly, the pair was in loads of trouble already. I wondered if they had anything to do with the missing canteen.

“Well,” she said again. Ashland was a doctoral candidate in American History at a nearby university. I tried to imagine her teaching a theater-sized classroom of two hundred undergraduate students. I knew that was part of her job as a teaching assistant, but the image didn't fit.

I became concerned. “Is anything wrong?”

“Cynthia is here and would like you to give her a tour of the reenactment,” she said.

“Of course. Where is she?” I couldn't imagine why Cynthia's appearance would tongue-tie my assistant. Ms. Cynthia Cherry was Barton Farm's benefactress and, for lack of a better word, my boss as she was also the chairwoman on the Farm's board of trustees. “Is that all?”

“Her nephew is with her,” she added in a rush. “They're waiting inside the visitor center.”

I made a face. “Why is he here?” I asked. I could count on one hand the number of times Maxwell Cherry had visited the Farm. He was Cynthia's only heir and did not approve of the money Cynthia donated to the Farm through the Cherry Foundation, which Cynthia's tire tycoon father had created over a century ago to promote the arts and culture in Summit County. Barton Farm certainly wasn't the only museum the foundation supported, but we were the most expensive.

Ashland clenched her hands together in front of her, not answering.

I tapped a rhythm on the back of my notebook. “Well, this should be fun.”